The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [181]
‘I don’t understand,’ Izabela replied, shaking her head, ‘I see that ten means ten: but if ten in tradesman’s language means thirty-three, so be it …’
‘You must realise that you don’t understand. I’d explain it but I’m so tired I’ll take a nap …’
‘Should I send for the doctor?’ asked Izabela, rising.
‘God forbid!’ exclaimed Tomasz with a gesture, ‘once I get into the doctors’ hands, I shan’t survive …’
Izabela insisted no longer: she kissed her father’s hand and brow, and went to her boudoir, deep in thought.
The uneasiness that had been haunting her for several days as to how the auction sale would end had left her without trace. So they still had ten thousand roubles a year, and thirty thousand in cash? So they could go to the Paris Exhibition, then perhaps to Switzerland, and back to Paris for the winter. Or no — for the winter they would come back to Warsaw and open their house again. And if some wealthy man, not old and ugly (as the Baron or marshal were — ugh!) should be found, not a parvenu and not stupid … (well, he might be stupid: in their world only Ochocki was clever, and he was an eccentric!). If such a suitor were to be found, Izabela would finally make up her mind …
‘Father is capital with that Wokulski of his!’ she thought, walking to and fro in her boudoir. ‘Wokulski my guardian! Wokulski might make a very good adviser, a plenipotentiary, even the trustee of my estate … But the title of guardian can only belong to the Prince, who is our cousin and old friend of the family …’
She continued walking to and fro with her arms crossed on her bosom and it suddenly occurred to her to ask why her father had grown so affectionate towards Wokulski this day? That man, by some magical power, having won over all her environment, had gained the last position — her father! Her father, Mr Tomasz Łęcki, had wept … He, from whose eyes not a single tear had flowed since the death of her mother …
‘I must admit, all the same, that he is a very good man,’ she told herself. ‘Rossi would not have been so pleased with Warsaw had it not been for Wokulski’s concern. Well, but he will never be my guardian, not even in the event of a misfortune … As for the estate, well certainly … he might control it, but my guardian! Father must be terribly enfeebled even to conceive such a notion …’
Towards six that evening, Izabela was in the drawing-room when the bell rang and she heard Mikołaj’s impatient voice: ‘I told you to come back tomorrow, my master is poorly today.’
‘What am I supposed to do when your master has money but is poorly, and when he’s well he has no money?’ replied another voice, lisping slightly like a Jew’s.
At this moment the rustle of a woman’s dress was heard in the vestibule, and Flora hastened in, saying: ‘Be quiet! Quiet, for goodness sake … Come back tomorrow, Mr Spigelman … Surely you know the money will be here …’
‘That’s just why I have come today, and for the third time too. Tomorrow other people will come, and I’ll be made to wait again.’
The blood went to Izabela’s head and without realising what she did, she suddenly went into the vestibule: ‘What is it?’ she asked Flora. Mikołaj shrugged and tip-toed back into the kitchen.
‘It’s me, your ladyship … David Spigelman,’ replied a little man with black beard and dark spectacles, ‘I’ve come to see His Excellency on a little matter of business …’
‘Bela, dear,’ Flora exclaimed, trying to draw her cousin away. But Izabela freed herself and seeing that her father’s study was unoccupied, she told Spigelman to go in.
‘Think, Bela — what are you at?’ Flora protested.
‘I want to find out the truth once and for all,’ said Izabela. She shut the study door, sat down and looking into Spigelman’s dark glasses, she asked: ‘What business have you to discuss with my father?’
‘My apologies, your ladyship,’ said the visitor, bowing, ‘it is a very small matter. I only want my money back.’
‘How much is it?’
‘Altogether about eight hundred roubles.’
‘You will get it tomorrow …’
‘My